


Carry on Wayward Daughter

by DarkCommet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer is Dean and Sam Winchester's Father, Female-Centric, Good Parent Chuck Shurley, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Male-Female Friendship, Michael Needs a Hug, Multi, Protective Dean Winchester, The man deserves a medal, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkCommet/pseuds/DarkCommet
Summary: Because she's not a Winchester.Not anymore.She doesn't think she ever really was.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts with a hunt. 

Doesn't it always? 

Malia Winchester is sixteen and pulling sweat soaked hair up into a ponytail. It's the middle of July and their father has dragged them out to the middle of butt-fuck-Louisiana to hunt down a group of werewolves who've decided to hunker down in the town that has one bar, a gas station, a motel, a post office, and little else. Like seriously, the nearest grocery store is three hours away. 

They're practically stuck in the middle of the bayou. 

_Hello, Mr. Crocodile!_

And she gets it, she does. 

Werewolves.

Bad. 

But having to drag a duffel bag full of shit that is totally not her clothes? Yeah, that's not so good either. At all. And it's not like Dean's helping her out any. Oh no, that fucker's already in the hotel room deciding which bed he finds the comfiest. Malia's tempted to steal whichever bed Dean's claimed, it's not like he'll be using it as much anyway. He and dad are going to be _hunting_.  

 _That'd show him_ , she thinks as she pulls another bag from the trunk of the Impala. 

"Need help?" Sam asks as he steps up beside Malia. 

"Yeah, thanks Sammy." 

"Sam." 

Malia just smiles and passes over two of the duffel bags. 

The fourteen year old shoulders them both before reaching in to grab the last one. Malia shuts the trunk door before slinging her arm over Sam's shoulder. The younger boy groans loudly but doesn't try to shake her off. They both know it won't stop her. 

Overly affectionate is kind of Malia's defining trait. 

When they enter the hotel room Dean is already splayed out on one of the beds. 

He's not doing anything so Malia really doesn't understand why he's the one sitting in the hotel room while she and Sam are dragging bags in. 

"No Dean, I don't need help at all!" Malia gripes as she tosses the bags on the empty bed, "I'm perfectly capable of dragging four duffel bags in despite my injured arm!" 

The older boy cracks open an eye, looks at the pristine white bandages, and shrugs. 

"You had Sammy." Dean says. 

"Yeah but Sam wasn't the one that promised to help me drag bags in." Malia bites out. 

"Enough, both of you." 

Both teens look away from each other and too their father. 

John Winchester is the only parent Malia has left, and while she knows it's terrible, he isn't her _dad_. He doesn't try to intimidate any boys she brings home- not that she does, he doesn't tell her to be back by ten, he doesn't say things like, "I like your friend." or "How'd you do on your test, Mal?" 

No, John Winchester is the type of father that buys her knives on her birthday and a gun for Christmas. John Winchester is the type of father that glares at her when she asks to go to movies with friends, grumbles when she mentions a play she wants to go see, snarls out mean comments when Malia argues about leaving so soon after enrolling in a new school. 

Malia loves her father. She does. But she can't wait until she's eighteen. 

Then she's gone. 

And she'll miss Dean- with his sarcastic comments and parenting nature, he's more of a father then her own father- and Sam- with his gentle smiles and love of books. 

She'll miss her father's smile and the way he taps his fingers against the steering wheel when they're driving down the road. 

Malia won't miss the hunting, the screaming, the moving, the blood, the gore, the scars. 

God, she wishes she was eighteen. 

Old enough to leave and old enough to offer to let Sam come with her if he so desires. 

"He started it." Malia grumbles before flopping down on the bed. 

"And I'm finishing it." John asserts, to which Malia fights not to roll her eyes. "We're leaving in a few minutes Dean." 

Malia can almost feel Dean nod, then he's rolling off of the bed and gathering his things. 

John turns his attention on the youngest of the siblings. 

"Sam, listen to your sister." 

"Yes, sir." 

Malia rolls so she's facing her father. 

"Don't let him out of your sight." 

She just nods her head. 

Like she's going to be the one that lets Sam get hurt. 

Yeah, as if. 

 

* * *

 

The bar in the center of town doesn't have a grill but the bartender does make them a pizza. Which is nice of her because bar pizza is great. Greasy and not at all good for you. 

She and Sam take their pizza to the back table after paying and Malia takes the seat facing the door. 

"You not hungry?" Malia asks after a moment. 

The slice of pizza she's holding burns her fingers and the cheese tries to slide off of the crust when she takes a bite. 

Damn good pizza. 

"It's not that." Sam mutters. 

"You're too young to be experiencing a mid-life crisis, Sammy." 

Sam shrugs before biting into his pizza. Malia watches him for a moment, memorizing his features into her memory. There are dark circles forming under his eyes, his hair is a tangled mess, he looks like he hasn't slept in years. 

Malia leans back into her chair, pizza forgotten.

"I'm just tired." 

The older girl just nods. 

She won't push him, because it won't do anything. Sam won't tell her anything if he doesn't want to tell her anything. But Malia doesn't have to press for information. Their father's been pushing them all a little too hard. Especially Sam, who's been pulling odd hours and late nights looking for clues as to where the pack is, who's leading it, and whether or not the recent attacks were werewolf related. 

Not that it would change anything if they weren't. 

John would still hunt the pack down and kill them. 

Then he'd be off hunting again and the cycle would repeat itself. 

"You know... You can tell dad 'no' once in a while, right? He has two other kids. It's not like Dean's a dumb ass." 

"Right, he'd whoop my ass." 

"Language, and no he wouldn't." 

Sam levels her with a look that almost makes Malia smile. Instead she picks at the frayed hem of her shirt sleeve for a moment. In all honesty, Sam should tell their dad to lay off a little, but it won't happen. Because Sam might not be the most obedient of the Winchester kids but he is a good, respectful kid and he doesn't like to piss their dad off. 

So if Sam's not going to do it then Malia will have too. 

She nods slowly before saying, "Eat up, we gotta get back before Dad." 

_Wouldn't he be happy to know I've taken Sammy out to actually get some damn food?_

Malia scoffs a bit, takes a bite of her pizza, then tosses the slice back onto the cardboard the bartender had served it to them on. She keeps an eye on Sam, he's not really eating anything, just picks at the toppings. 

The older girl sighs. 

She'll wait until Sam goes to bed. 

Then she'll talk to their dad. 

Malia takes a sip of her water, praying to God that her dad doesn't loose his shit. 

He probably will. 

 

* * *

 

They're leaving the bar when Malia hears it. 

A high pitched, pained whine that emits from the darkness of the alley to her left. Malia stops walking which causes Sam freeze beside her. 

"Did you hear that?" Malia asks, but she doesn't reach for the knife tucked into her waistband.

Sam rolls his eyes, this isn't the first time Malia's done something like this. 

"No Malia, I didn't." 

Another high pitched whine has Malia stepping into the alley. Sam follows with an exasperated huff. 

The alley is filled with boxes and trash and broken bottles. Malia grimaces as she sidesteps a pile of something that smells a lot like vomit. Which is just... _Ew_. But she ignores the stench in favor of pushing boxes away from the large dumpster. 

"What are you doing? It could be, uh you know, dangerous." Sam gripes. 

"What if it's not?" Malia retorts before tossing a bottle cap at her brother. 

The cap lands at his feet. 

Malia smiles, turns her attention back to the boxes, and this time Sam helps.

It takes them about five seconds to clear the boxes away from the dumpster. And when the soggy cardboard is gone the source of the whining can be seen lying in the space between the wall and the dumpster. Malia gasps. 

"A puppy?" Sam mutters. 

But it doesn't really look like a puppy... It's going to be a big dog when it gets older, it's big now, and the poor thing looks like someone's really put it through the ringer. One eye is bloody- possibly infected, it'll be lucky if he keeps both eyes- and swollen shut, there are three nasty looking cut across the thing's snout, and his hair is matted, a putrid green-brown that tells Malia he hasn't been taken care of properly in... A long time. 

Malia reaches out to take the puppy into her arms without hesitation, the puppy doesn't even growl at her. He, because it is a he now that Malia can see, just whines a little louder and shakes. 

"I'm keeping him." Malia states after a moment. 

Sam, his nose scrunched up, tells Malia, "Dad won't like it." 

"Dad can suck my left nut." 

Because there's no way in Hell she's leaving this puppy here. 

And maybe this is the reason she'll never make it as a hunter, the reason she'd thrown up after her first creature kill, reason Bobby Singer had tucked her hair behind her ear the last time they'd seen each other and told her to get out of the life while she had a chance. 

She's too soft. 

The puppy in her arms probably won't survive the night and while Malia knows this she also knows that she'll still cry as she digs him a little grave. 

Oh, her father won't be happy. 

At all. 

But he'll just have to deal with it because she's chosen this puppy as hers. 

"That won't get you yelled at." Sam scoffs, then he's reaching out and pulling something questionable out of the dog's fur, "Why this one?" 

"I bond fast." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You're going to need food and something to clean him up with." 

"We have snacks at the room and I have my bath products." 

"You're really going to use your hairbrush on _that_?" 

Malia smiles and adjusts the dog in her arms before saying, "Nah, I was thinking of using Dean's." 

This time Sam laughs. 

And Malia knows she's won him over. 

 

* * *

 

The bathroom ends up looking like some kind of murder took place in it. 

Before they can start cleaning wounds Malia has to get Kirk- because that's his name now- kind of cleaned up. So she plops him in the tub and turns the faucet until the water runs lukewarm, then she grabs her toiletries and sets to work. She starts by shampooing and conditioning the shit out of Kirk, working her comb- not her actual hair brush- through his matted fur until there's nothing but the occasional knot and a tub full of soapy fur chunks, then she rinses him out. 

She repeats the process twice and has to borrow Sam's conditioner before Malia decide's she's ok with the results. 

Kirk's fur is white, an off kind of white that Malia knows will actually go white-white when she starts washing him every weekend. 

With a grunt Malia pulls the puppy out of the tub and moves to set him on the counter. 

Sam takes a towel to the inside of the tub so that she can focus her attention on Kirk's injuries. 

Now, Malia's no vet. She's never had a pet before either. There's absolutely nothing for her to go off of in terms of animal treatment... But... She's patched up her brothers and her dad more times then she can count. And John Winchester, for all his faults, keeps one hell of a medical supply, an entire duffel bag to be precise. But she doesn't want to hurt him more then she has to. 

So Malia starts by dabbing at the three laceration on Kirk's snout with a moist towel. Kirk whimpers as the heated water drips into the wounds, there's some bleeding, but Malia stops before she can actually break open any forming scabs, then she's rubbing an antiseptic across his snout and fitting a couple of gauze strips over that. Honestly, she's just hoping the gauze will stick. 

"What are you gonna do about his eye?" Sam asks. 

"I have no idea." Malia replies, eyeing the swollen body part. 

"Maybe you could clean it out a little? Slap a bandage on it and swing by a vet clinic in the next town?" 

She's got enough money hidden away to do so. 

"Yeah... Yeah, ok." 

This time Kirk struggles, he whimpers and tries to pull away when Malia dabs the cloth against his eye. It makes her stomach churn. Eventually she has to pass the job off to Sam because she just can't do it. 

Malia slips out of the bathroom, plops down on a bed, and tries not to puke when more agonized whimpering drifts to her ears.

Several minutes pass before Sam leaves the bathroom, a bundle of white fur tucked under his arm.

"Thanks, Sammy." Malia breathes as she takes Kirk, there's a shit ton of gauze wrapped around his head and eye.

Sloppy but effective.

Malia cuddles Kirk, runs her fingers through his fur, ignores the lingering stench of vomit beneath the scent of her shampoo. 

"You really need to take him to a vet, Mal." Sam remarks. 

"I know." 

Sam just nods his head and turns on the TV. 

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, Malia really should have seen it coming. 

Dean slips into the hotel room first, takes one look at the dog curled up in Malia's lap, and gives her a look that says _hide-it_ before slipping into the bathroom to take a shower. But where is she going to hide the dog? In the duffel bags? The bathroom? Under the bed? 

No, she's not hiding the dog. 

Instead Malia lifts Kirk off of her lap and places him on the bed beside a sleeping Sam. Then she's stepping out of the hotel room into the muggy Louisiana night air in search of her dad.

He's digging through the trunk of the Impala. 

Malia almost turns around, the only thing stopping her is the memory of just how quickly Sam had fallen asleep after they'd gotten back to the room. He'd rolled onto the bed and then he was out like a light. Hadn't even woken up when Malia tucked him under the blankets. 

Which is bad. 

Because Sam's such a light sleeper. 

"Hey dad can we, uh... Can we talk?" Malia asked, toeing at the ground. 

She doesn't have to be looking to know her dad hasn't pulled his attention from the contents of the trunk. 

"Can it wait?" 

"It's about Sam." 

This has her dad looking at her. 

And Malia hesitates for a split second before she says, "I think... I think you need to lay off on Sam a little." 

"Excuse me?" 

It's a growl, a warning. 

_Stop now._

Malia doesn't. 

"It's just that Sam's been pushing himself a little too hard and I'm not saying it's your fault or anything, because it's not, but I think that if you said something he'd actually start getting some sleep... Eating more, you know, that kind of thing." 

The trunk of the car slams closed with such force that it makes Malia wince. 

John Winchester steps closer, almost crosses into Malia's bubble, and crosses his arms. 

He looks... Terrifying. 

There's blood and gunk on his jeans and shirt, he smells like putrid water, and his eyes are so angry that Malia begins to wonder if this is how monsters feel when he confronts them. 

She starts to wonder if her eyes ever look the same. 

"Your brother is fine, leave it be." John barks. 

And then he's stomping toward the hotel and Malia knows she should let it go. Knows that nothing good will come from arguing... But... _Right, he'd whoop my ass_. Malia turns on her heel, a burning sensation in her chest. 

"But he's not!" She finds herself snarling. "He's not sleeping, he's not eating, like he should. And we all pretend that he is because it's safer then admitting that we aren't taking care of him!" 

"Malia, enough." Her father commands through clenched teeth. He looks angrier then Malia's ever seen him but she's angry too. "You're bother is fine." 

Because Dean and Sam and Malia are John's responsibility to protect. Especially Sam. Because Sam is the youngest of them, Sam is the one that pushes himself too hard, Sam is the one who wants more but knows he can't have it. Sam is... 

Sam's the one their mother died protecting. 

"Are you," Malia is at a loss for words, "are you kidding me? Have you seen him? Do you even care? I would hope so! You're the only parent any of us have left and y-" 

The hit comes hard and it comes fast. 

The left side of Malia's face erupts in a sharp, stinging pain that has her eyes watering. 

For a moment the sixteen year old remains silent, shocked that her father had actually hit her, and then she's licking the blood from the place where her lip split. Pressure is building up in Malia's chest, like a scream that's been working itself up for years, and it gets stuck in her throat. Malia squares her shoulders and turns to face John Winchester. 

He is not her father. 

He is not the man that used to put her on his shoulders. 

Is not the man who would sit and have tea parties with her when she was young. 

Is not the man that would check for monsters under the bed. 

He is a stranger. 

And Malia hates him. 

"You're one hell of a father, John Winchester, I hope you know that." Malia intones. 

Then she's walking past her father. 

Normally she's shove her should against his, spit out some scathing, and storm off. 

Normally she's still so angry after a fight that she can't help but be hateful. 

But now? Now Malia's done. 

Done with John Winchester and his bullshit and his hate and his vengeance. 

She's done. 

"Malia!" John calls, tone less angry and more self deprecating. 

Malia bites her lip and opens the hotel room door, trying to ignore the sting of tears in her eyes. 

Behind her the car door slams shut and the engine roars to life. 

John Winchester is gone before Malia can even shut the door. 

 _Good_ , she thinks, _it's going to make this a lot easier._

As soon as the door shuts Malia moves to grab her duffel bag. The shower is running in the bathroom, the TV turned up just loud enough that it would have droned out any of the arguing outside. Malia stifles her shaking breaths into one of her hand. It takes her a good minute to calm down enough to think clearly, but once she's gotten herself under control Malia begins tossing what she can into the duffel bag. 

She even changes into a pair of torn-to-hell jeans and Sammy's hoodie so that no one will recognize her. 

Then she turns to face Sam. 

Kirk is staring at her through his good eye and Malia offers a watery smile as she moves to pick him up. 

"I love you so much Sammy, and if I could I would take you with me. You and Dean both." Malia whispers before pressing a ghost of a kiss to Sam's cheek. 

He doesn't even stir. 

Malia doesn't expect him too. 

The shower is still running when Malia closes the hotel room door for the last time. 

 

* * *

 

It's raining. 

Malia's been walking for what feels like hours, Kirk tucked away between her shirt and Sam's hoodie, and it probably hasn't been that long but with the rain it sure as hell feels like it. 

She keeps looking over her shoulder, expecting to see the Impala whipping around a curve, but there's never anything there. Malia isn't sure why she's so disappointed. 

John wouldn't come after her, Dean wouldn't do anything to anger him, and Sammy... Well, Sam's too young to drive. Hell, no one would let him out of their sight if he was. 

No one's coming for her. 

For the first time in sixteen years Malia is truly alone. 

She's not sure how to feel about that. 

Right now Malia's more worried about keeping Kirk healthy then herself. 

"Just a few more miles, I think I saw a mile marker back there." Malia mutters, blinking rain out of her eyes. 

Suddenly there is are two bright lights and a truck whipping past her. 

Malia swears colorfully when the tires spray more water up into her face. 

Kirk whimpers loudly and Malia is quick to pull the neck of her hoodie away to allow Kirk to pop his ridiculously giant head out of her hoodie. Malia ignores the brief worry that Kirk's going to stretch out her shirt and checks his bandage. 

It's starting to get wet. 

Shit. 

Fucking shit. 

"Hey! Hey, you ok!" 

Malia grinds her teeth and starts walking. She does not acknowledge the driver of the car that has appeared beside her. But she does move her bag in such a way that it presses her knife into her flesh. 

She is not defenseless. 

"Uh, miss? You are a miss right? Like, you aren't a boy are you?" 

Malia rolls her eyes. 

 _Jesus God_. 

She thinks she hears the man behind her laugh. 

"Do you need a ride? Like, i know you don't know me and stranger danger and all that... But the weather's only supposed to get worse and you aren't really that easy to see! Someone's going to end up hitting you!" 

"I'm fine, thanks." 

The car just keeps driving alongside her. 

Malia glances at the driver.  

A streak of lighting lights up the sky and for a brief second Malia can see a face. 

Kindly, worried, it is the face of a good man. 

But Malia knows better then to trust someone's face. 

So she just adjusts her bag and keeps walking. 

She walks for several minutes and the driver follows. 

The rain comes down heavier, it smacks against Malia's face and body leaving sharp pain behind. It's also cold as shit, which is suprising seeing as it was so damn hot not that long ago. 

Kirk whimpers. 

Malia looks down at his face. 

Red is beginning to color the bandages over his eye. She needs to get him out of the rain. Now. And it's not like she'll be totally defenseless. Malia stops walking and the driver stops driving. 

The click of the car door unlocking is what prompts Malia to let out a frustrated huff as she pulls the door open. 

"Thanks." She mutters once she's settled and her duffel bag in at her feet. 

Kirk whines into her neck. 

"Yeah of course," the man says as he starts driving again. "I'm Chuck by the way. Chuck Shurley." 

"Malia Campbell." 

Because she's not a Winchester. 

Not anymore. 

She doesn't think she ever really was. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chuck Shurley, Malia realizes, is not human. 

They've been traveling together for a few days now and he's been nothing but ordinary. Nothing about him had made Malia think he was anything other then a thirty year old human helping some kid he found wandering down a road. 

It isn't until they hit Paris, a city in Texas where they've stopped to get something to eat, that Malia starts to notice it. 

Chuck doesn't eat like a human. Oh, he eats three meals a day and reminds Malia a lot of Dean but... It's the way he eats that makes the teenager suspicious. Because most humans don't take a bite of their food and hesitate before chewing, most humans don't act like they're forcing themselves to eat, most humans don't wash every single bite of their food down with water after they swallow. 

And it wouldn't be so weird if Malia didn't get the feeling that Chuck was forcing himself to eat. It's like everything he puts in his mouth leaves behind a funny taste. Like he'd rather spit it out in a napkin than swallow. Like his body doesn't accept human food.

Malia doesn't comment on it at first. 

Not until they stop in Clayton that Malia decides to voice her suspicion. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Malia asks as Chuck slides back into the driver's seat. 

They stopped to get gas and while Chuck had had filled the tank Malia had gone into the station to grab some snacks. Which really meant Malia was buying whatever she could find that Kirk could eat. Because damn if he didn't eat half of Malia's body weight. And while she bought snacks that Chuck preferred she really didn't expect him to eat any of it.

But she passes him a bag of chips anyway. Just to see if he does.

Chuck pops a chip into his mouth, eyes crinkling slightly. "Sure."

"What are you?"

Her not-quite-friend stills for a moment before offering Malia a confused smile.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Chuck," Malia runs a hand over her face, "I'm not stupid."

And the dark haired man's smile turns sad, so incredibly sad that it makes Malia wish she hadn't said anything. Makes her wish she'd kept her damn mouth shut because _Jesus_ the panic is building up in her chest a little bit. What if he hadn't known she was a hunter? What if he hadn't known she was a Winchester and she'd just given it away? What if he thinks she's going to kill him now? 

But Chuck doesn't tell her to get out, doesn't lunge for her throat, doesn't do anything but offer that sad smile of his as he reaches over to scratch at Kirk's ear. 

The dog's lip curls slightly but he doesn't growl. 

Another reason Malia knows Chuck isn't human. 

"I know," Chuck says and there's something about his tone that makes Malia release the breath she'd been holding. 

"So what are you?" 

A moment of hesitation. 

And then, "Old. Really old." 

"Like dinosaur old or...?" 

Chuck snorts. 

"Just old." 

"Oh..." 

Malia turns to look out the window, absently scratching at her dog's side. The vet they'd visited to look at Kirk hadn't been able to save his eye, not that Malia cares really, it's just that it would have been better for Kirk if he'd been able to use both of them... In case of an emergency. But the loss of that one eye doesn't seem to be bothering her dog any.

"So what are you then? If you're _just old_?" 

Chuck smiles at her. 

"Why the sudden interest?" 

"Because I'm a hunter... Or, I was. I don't trust a lot of people, creatures, things." 

Malia glances at Chuck, finds him staring at her, and almost winces when she sees that terrible sadness lingering in his eyes. Like he had some part to play in the hand she'd been dealt. 

"Do you trust me?" Chuck asks. 

And she knows that he's asking because he's curious. Not because he's expecting her to nod and lay her life in his hands. Chuck isn't John. Chuck isn't Dean. Chuck has never expected anything from Malia. 

She finds herself nodding. 

"Yeah, yeah I guess I do." 

"Then does it matter what I am?" 

"... 'Spouse not..." 

And really, that's all there is to it. 

 

* * *

 

Malia isn't sure why she's stays with Chuck. It would have made more sense if Malia had asked him to drop her off at Bobby's. She's found herself almost asking Chuck to do so once or twice, but something always stops her. 

A little voice in the back of her mind telling Malia that she should stay. 

So she does. 

And it's been a year since Malia met Chuck. 

Malia likes life with Chuck. 

The two of them bounce around a lot... But, it's not like it was when Malia was still a Winchester. She's not traveling from city to city living in shitty motels while trying to track down this monster or that, living off of vending machine snacks and beef jerky. Whenever they move Chuck makes sure to do it real proper like. 

He rents a truck, helps Malia pack, and makes sure all of Malia's friends have a way of reaching her before they're gone again. 

"Why do you guys move so much?" One girl asks. 

Malia just shrugs, "Chuk's a freelance writer." 

And it's true. 

Kind of? 

Malia thinks Chuck moves so much because he's old and he's probably seen this little town before. A long time ago. When it was just a little house on a hill with an even smaller family trying to make a living off the land. 

So Malia doesn't hate Chuck for moving them. 

How can she when he's spending longer amounts of time then he normally would in one place, not for himself but for her. 

Like, three months into their stay in some little town in Michigan Chuck pulls Malia aside and asks, fucking _asks_ , if she'd be ok with them moving soon. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. 

When Malia asks why Chuck doesn't bark at her or glare. He just shrugs and says, "I'd kind of like to try Oregon." 

And while moving isn't exactly what she wants to do Malia just smiles and tells Chuck that she's more then willing to try Oregon too. 

He smiles at that. 

He always does. 

 

* * *

 

It was bound to happen. Sooner or later. Malia was expecting this little conversation to go down months ago. 

She's well into her junior year and prom is just around the corner. 

A boy named Anthony asks her to go. He's cute, a bit of a nervous wreck, but cute all the same. Malia thinks he's only asking her because they're friends and he's too much of a chicken shit to ask Delilah Sommers. But Malia's flattered and they decide to meet at the school. 

Chuck nods slowly when she tells him, eyes distant, fingers running through the long white fur covering Kirk's back. 

"Are you excited?" Chuck wonders after a moment. 

Malia shurgs and says, "Sure... I guess." 

"Oh... That's good." 

Chuck busies himself with the papers he'd been editing. 

Malia frowns. 

Because it's weird. Chuck's the one who'd suggested she go to prom in the first place. And he'd even told her that a few of her classmates would go with her if Malia asked them. Malia wonders how he knows that. Probably a perk of him not being human. Or something. For some reason Malia thinks Chuck likes to snoop a bit. As annoying as that is. 

"Ok," she says after a long moment, "what's going on?"

"What? Nothing's going on." 

Malia raised an eyebrow and Chuck fidgets in his chair. 

"Look, I just don't want you to do anything you don't want to do ok?" 

"Uh huh." 

She lets it drop though because she trusts the curly haired not-human to tell her if he thinks she's in trouble. He tends to be a bit over protective and Malia doubts he would let her go out with anyone he felt would hurt her. 

Doesn't mean she isn't suspicious. 

Because she is. 

Chuck's pen runs out of ink, Malia reaches over to the little mug in the middle of the table to get him a new one. She's getting ready to hand it to him when Chuck pushes the papers away. 

"Can I ask you something?" Chuck asks, voice soft and kind. 

"Sure." 

"How old were you when you started hunting?" 

Malia swallows. 

How old?

Well, she personally thinks she'd been too young when John started telling her things like, "Santa isn't real but the monster under the bed? That might be a skin changer." or "Don't worry, nothing's going to get you. I put salt in front of the door." 

"I was ten when I killed my first monster." 

Chuck swears, something in a language she doesn't understand. 

"Ten?" Chuck repeats, like he doesn't believe it. 

Like he's horrified by the notion. 

"Yeah... Werewolf. John caught him and... And I shot him." 

"Did you want to go on that hunt?" 

 _No_. 

No she hadn't wanted to. John had insisted, had pressed a gun into her hands and told her that she was a damn Winchester and she needed to learn to protect herself. She can remember every detail of that hunt. She'd worn one of Dean's shirts and a pair of ratty jeans, she'd had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, she'd spent three hours in a car with John as he'd driven them to where the wolf was. 

And the man had screamed, begged, wondered why they were doing what they'd done to him. 

John had kicked his knees out and then told Malia to shoot him. 

Put him out of his misery. 

Malia doesn't actually remember pulling the trigger, but she remembers throwing up when the bullet had ripped through the man's chest. Silencing his screaming and leaving a bloosy pool on the floor.

"I didn't have much of a choice really." 

And that's all there is to it. 

Chuck nods, looking like he wants to punch something in the throat. Malia just pats his hand. 

"It's o-" 

"No... It's not ok. You were a kid. You should never have had to deal with that. Damn it, what was your father thinking?"

Malia bites her lip before whispering, "He was doing what he thought was best." 

"Doesn't mean it's right." 

"No," Malia agrees. "No it doesn't." 

 

* * *

 

Oregon is nice. Quiet. There's not a lot going on. Malia appreciates that. 

The house Chuck buys is small, like always, but he gives Malia the room with the best view and lets her borrow the car so she can run to the nearest Home Depot to get paint. 

She buys a really pretty shade of baby blue that makes her breath catch in her throat. 

And on her way home Malia runs into trouble.

There's a woman standing off to the side of the road, the hood of her trunk popped up, steam billowing up into the air. She looks confused, her perfectly groomed brows furrowed and her fingers drumming against the hood she's keeping propped up. 

Malia, despite the wariness in her gut, pulls over to help. 

"Thank you! I don't know what happened!" The woman laments when Malia gets out of the truck. 

She smiles. 

"Maybe I can call a mechanic for you." Malia offers, digging her phone out of her pocket. 

Completely missing the way the woman stiffens when Malia flips her hair over her shoulder. 

"Your father must be worried about you." The woman remarks, almost off handedly. 

It makes Malia tense a bit. "Oh... uh, no. He knows where I am."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about the human you're slumming with, bitch. I'm talking ablut your daddy. John Winchester." 

Malia doesn't have time to run before her head is being smacked into the side of the woman's car. 

Everything spins and Malia drops onto her hands and knees, phone skidding beneath the car. Black spots dance in front of her eyes and something wet is seeping out of her hair. 

 _Oh God,_ she thinks as a little red drop lands on the pavement beside her fingers. 

Then another. 

And another. 

Malia moves to get up, to fight, to run, to do something that isn't just laying in the street waiting for her attacker to kill her. 

"What's the matter Winchester? Loosing your touch?" The woman growls. 

"Not... A Whinchester." Malia pants. 

"Not a Winchester? Ha! You're a funny girl." The woman crouches down so that she can grip Malia's chin between her fingers. "One a Winchester always a Wincester... Though, I suppose you _were_ always the black sheep of the family." 

Malia swigs at the bitch's head, fingers curling into a tight fist, but before she can crack the woman in the temple her wrist is being taken in an icy grip. 

"Shame on you Malia. Shame on you. Didn't your daddy teach you better than to fight someone like me?" The woman hisses. 

And Malia thinks that the sudden blackness that seeps into the woman's eyes is a product of her head injury. Because people don't just have black eyes. None of the monsters Malia's ever faced have had black eyes. Dark eyes, yes, but never straight black. 

"What are you?" Malia growls, moving slightly so that she can kick out the woman's ankle if she has too. 

"Bless your heart, sugar," The woman giggles, the black receding, "I'm a demon love." 

Then Malia is flying. Her body sailing through the air for a good three feet before smacking against a tree. Some snaps. Malia thinks it might have been a rib or two, but she's in so much pain that it's impossible to really tell what's broken. She just hopes it's nothing in her spine. 

She coughs as her body drops into the dirt. 

"I think I'll send your body back to your daddy in one charred husk." The demon woman remarks absently from somewhere to Malia's right. "It's tradition, you know, all the Winchester women die painfully. Your grandma got her neck snapped in half, your daddy didn't have anything of your mamma but ashes, and you? Well, I'm feeling creative. Don't think I want you burning anymore." 

Malia rolls over onto her hands and knees, coughing as she does so. 

Blood is dribbling down her chin but Malia ignores it. She's got bigger problems to deal with. Like the fact that she's alone, injured, and fighting a thing she has no idea how to handle. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

"What do you think your daddy is going to say when he finds out that you've been shacking up with one of us and calling him family? Nothing good, sugar, nothing good at all." 

"Leave him out of this you cunt." Malia snarls, glaring around the dark spots in her vision. 

The demon's in front of her in a flash, smiling ruefully and running a thumb through the trickle of blood running from the side of Malia's mouth. 

"Why? Do you think he actually cares about you, sugar? You're a hunter. You'll never be one of us and my _kind_ doesn't tend to show much sympathy for hunters.... Maybe he'll help me flay you alive when he finds out what you are." 

Anger burns in her gut, hot and heavy and so very, very real. Without thought Malia lunges. 

Pain races through her body but she ignores it in favor of wrapping her hands around the demon's neck and squeezing tight. Her attacker just laughs, it's like she doesn't even notice that Malia's cutting off her air supply. 

Malia screams as fiery pain shoots up her body, knocking the wind out of her lungs with a mighty swoosh. 

The demon flips them over and drives her fist into Malia's face. 

Over and over and over until Malia can't even feel it anymore. 

She's going to die like this... It's not the fear of dying that has Malia choking on a sob. 

Chuck's not going to know what happened to her, he'll think she left him and he doesn't deserve that... Malia's never going to see Sammy again... Never going to joke with Dead about his eating habits... Never going to... Never going... Never... 

Something flickers in the corner of Malia's rapidly fading vision, something white hot and ferocious. It makes her clench her eyes shut as it draws nearer because it's just too damn painful to even try to keep her eyes open let alone look at something so bright. Above her the demon is screaming, thrashing and clawing, and then there's nothing but eerie silence and limp weight. 

Which doesn't last long. 

The weight is dragged off of her body and then there are gentle hands stroking back her hair, leaving behind a soft tingle that soothes away the pain. 

"Malia? Malia are you alright?" 

She's not sure why the voice sounds so familiar but she doesn't care. 

She's so _tired_.  

"Malia, you have to stay awake." This time the voice is more frantic. 

He'll be fine, she just needs a few minutes... 

"Malia!" 

Besides, what's going to happen? 

"Malia, come on!" 

The girl allows that darkness to wrap her up in it's arms. 

It's nice. 

Quiet. 

Maybe she won't dream this time. 

Something white flickers behind her eyes, it grows brighter and brighter and brighter until Malia can finally make out the different colors shining in that white expanse. Pinks and blues and deep reds and a shining core that pulses every time Malia's heart skips a beat. 

It's beautiful. 

 _Open your eyes_. 

The voice is deep and soft, a whisper against her ear. 

 _What is this place,_ she wants to ask, _am I dead?_

 _Open your eyes_. 

Louder this time, more urgent. 

Malia sighs. 

If she's dead and this is Heaven then Malia is more than willing to stay here. 

Here where it's warm and feels like every good thing Malia's ever experienced in her life. Here where Malia thinks she might be more than a husk of a girl with no family and no friends and a man who might be a father but isn't actually hers. 

_Malia, open your eyes!_

This time it's a roar, a deep bellow that shakes the world around her. The lights around her flicker and fade and pulse and it's so fucking painful that Malia wants to cry out and beg for it to stop. 

_Please, please, please!_

_You need to wake up._  

Malia wants to curl up in a ball and die. 

 _Wake Up!_  

This time the scream that rips itself from Malia's throat is filled with fear and terror. 

The world is no longer white light and tiny nebulae floating before her eyes. Now it's green and dull and rain is beating against her head. 

And there's a man crouched in front of her, hands in her hair, eyes full of worry. 

He's saying something that Malia can't hear over the ringing in her head. 

I know you, she wants to say, I know you. 

But darkness seeps back into her vision and drags her under before the words can form on her tongue. 

 

* * *

 

"I had children once... A long time ago." A voice says, cutting through the darkness Malia has come to know as a dear friend. "I loved them... Maybe too much... I loved them as fathers are supposed to love their sons and daughters but their love, their devotion, felt forced. I don't think they know what love is." 

Malia forces an eye open and closes it just as quick. 

The voice doesn't stop. 

"So I left. I don't regret it. I needed to leave but... I haven't seen my family in years. I forgot what family felt like. And then you came along and you were this rain soaked mess that had just left your family and you had this puppy with you that looked half dead and you... You're my family now. We aren't blood, Malia, I doubt we ever will be, but you are my family and you scared me." The voice whispers. "I haven't felt fear in a very, very _long_ time." 

"Sorry." Malia manages to choke out, her voice sounding broken even to her own ears. 

"Shh. Don't speak. Heal. We'll speak later." 

And then he's singing in that sad, forgotten language that rolls off of his tongue like honey. 

Malia settles back into the warmth offered to her by the blankets and her mattress. 

 _Safe_ , she thinks, _I'm safe_. 

Chuck's fingers tighten around her own and Malia slips back into that darkness that's always waiting to claim her for its own. 

 

* * *

 

How long has it been since he's talked about his children? His first borns. The beings that hold within their frames slivers of his own grace. 

Years. Millennia. It feels like millennia. 

Michael and Lucifer and Gabriel and Raphael and all of their siblings. The children who knelt before the mortals and those who didn't. His children. 

Chuck, his name is Chuck now, stares at the little mortal lying in her bed. 

Malia Winchester. 

Hunter. 

Child. 

Destined.

 _Family_. 

It's been.... Such a long time since he's had anyone to consider family. Anyone he has willingly taken into his arms and revealed to them the full extent of what he is. 

Oh, she won't remember it and even if she does Malia will think nothing of what he'd shown her when she'd been clingign to the last vestiges of her mortal life. She will think that the white lights and the flickering proof of the power he holds within him is nothing more than a dream. 

The realization makes him... Sad. 

Because Malia Winchester was a hunter, is a hunter, she has the blood of hunters and Men of Letters flowing hot in her veins and she is so very kind. She had not shied away when she'd realized Chuck was not human. Had not tried to harm him when he'd admitted to it. She'd merely accepted it as a way of life and went about trying to make his life easier. 

It makes him angry to know that she has suffered so much in her short life. 

 _This is not what I wanted for them_ , he thinks as he watches the bruises and cuts covering his child's face heal over and fade. 

He wanted paradise, he wanted joy and laughter and free will. 

And while he is fully capable of seeing all of his children within the great expanse of his mind he doesn't. He steps back and focuses on this thing or that and tries to give his children the space he needs to grow and learn and _be_. 

He hasn't had anyone truly rely on him for years. 

Then she came with her laughter and her joy and her soft smiles. 

 _She almost died_. 

If he hadn't intervened Malia Winchester would be rotting in a ditch at this moment, her body filling with maggots and rot. 

The thought makes him sick. 

"I think," he finds himself telling the unconscious child on the bed, "that my son might like you." 

He doesnt' elaborate on which son. He has so very many. But surely one would enjoy young Malia Winchester's company. 

Gabriel and Balthazar are more likely to enjoy her company than the others. 

Joshua would adore her. He's always had a soft spot for soft-hearted things. 

And Malia Winchester is very much a soft-hearted thing. 

Chuck sighs, pressing his finger against the girl's temple, driving away the darkness of dreamless sleep with the brilliance of his first born children. His memories, shared with a mortal child who will never even be able to comprehend what it is he's given her. 

Because these are more than just the memories of mourning father. 

This is the purest form of protection he can offer her. 

The best way to keep Malia Winchester, this child who he has grown to love just as he loves the Morning Star and all his firstborn children, safe. 

Malia Winchester is God touched. A sliver of his power rests in her mortal frame. Any angel that crosses her path will know that she is special, the urge to protect her will be strong. Any demon, any creature lurking in the night, that dares to touch her will do so at the risk of their life. 

Because Angels are not kind. 

They are not merciful. 

And they will not hesitate to destroy anything that would harm what their father considers dear. 

"They _will_ protect you, Malia, even when I can't."

The blonde haired child rolls over, deep blue and purple smears cover her face and there's blood crusted over on her bottom lip. And Chuck reaches out to curl his fingers around her own. 

He doesn't leave her side for a second. 

Even after the wounds have healed and her body takes on a healthy color. He stays because he does not want this child to wake up alone. 

Chuck has made a lot of mistake, in the life he lives now and the life he lived before, and he's not looking for redemption. He doesn't need it. But he does want to give this girl everything he should have given his firstborns and her ancestors and even her parents. 

Safety and joy and a world where a child doesn't have to suffer at the hands of a father seeking revenge. 


	3. Chapter 3

Things are different now. 

Malia doesn't quite feel right. She feels like her skin doesn't fit over her muscles like it used too. It's like something rolls and digs in the spaces between her bones, in the cavities between her ribs, in that little hollow space in her gut that used to feel so very, very empty. 

It feels like it might burst now. 

Without much thought Malia reaches up to rub at the back of her neck, right beneath the base of her skull. 

It's been a long couple of months. 

Ever since the attack Chuck's been acting weird, not in a bad way? But like, he's definitely way more protective then he has been. Just the other day he came home with some sort of weird knife thing that he'd given her with a gentle smile and sad eyes. And Malia appreciates it, yeah, but where the hell did he even get the damn thing? It's not like there's a supernatural occult store. 

Well... There actually might be. 

Malia isn't sure. 

But she thinks that's beside the point. 

The point is that he got her a fucking weapon that can, _apparently_ , kill demons. 

She stares at the silver blade in her hand, admiring the way the sunlight bounces off of the silver metal. It's really a nice weapon. Light weight and balanced, Malia won't have any trouble stabbing the next thing that comes after her. 

"Malia? You ok?" 

The girl jumps a bit. 

"Oh... Hey, Chuck." 

Chuck steps out onto the deck, a deck they didn't have in Oregon, and lowers himself onto the ground beside her. 

"Really nice out today." Chuck observes, glancing around. 

"Yeah, Kirk seems to think so." 

Malia flips the knife between her fingers, twirling it and spinning it and watching the light glint off of the sharpened edges. To his credit Chuck doesn't so much as flinch away from the scene. 

He's kind of accepted it at this point. 

For a moment Chuck is silent, content with sitting on the steps and watching as Kirk bolts back and forth across the yard. Content to sit and let his mind wonder in ways Malia thinks he tries not to let his mind wonder. She wonders what he's thinking about. Is it his family? He'd mentioned kids at some point hadn't he? Fuck, how long has it been since he's seen them? Are they human? Are they even alive? Probably not if they're human.

Would it be in poor taste if she asked? 

"Can I ask you something?" Chuck asks. 

"Sure." 

"Do you believe in God?" 

Malia frowns. "God as in white beard, white robes, fucks people over... That God?" 

"More or less." Chuck replies, a bit tense maybe but not hostile. 

"I dunno. I used to." 

"What changed?" 

Malia drops her head back to rest it against the railing behind her. "A lot of things, Chuck." 

"Like?" 

"Why do you want to know?" 

"Curiosity." 

"Right." 

It's silent for a long moment before Malia gets the nerve to open her eyes and look at the man. He's staring at her, brown eyes wide and full of pain. It makes something inside of Malia clench, because Chuck is supposed to smile and laugh and eat fucking Lucky Charms and gush about books. He's not supposed to be sitting on a rickety back step with a damaged teen talking about religion. 

Malia sighs. 

"Honestly... There were a lot of factors. I was an angry kid and my dad was abusive and there was so much going wrong with my life that I needed someone to blame. It was easier, I guess, to blame something I didn't quite understand or believe in to begin with." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be, Chuck. My decisions are my own and I'll die with them. Can't change the past, there's no point in trying." 

Chuck levels her with a look that shows more understanding then Malia thinks she really deserves. And this has to stop. This constant feeling of inadequacy that she gets whenever Chuck gives her those looks. She blames the feeling on John's shit parenting and her lack of emotional support through the years she's spent shooting things in the face and digging graves and stitching shredded skin back together. 

She blames her father. 

She blames her father for everything. 

And it needs to stop. 

Because Malia can't live a life where all she's doing in comparing every good thing to the shitty things she's lived through. It's not fair to her or Chuck or, God forbid, anyone else who wants to be part of her life. It's not fair, this vicious cycle that ruined her dad's life and is in the process of ruining her own. 

 _But you got out_ , a tiny voice promises. 

A lie. A dirty, rotten lie. Because Malia didn't get out. For fuck's sake, she was attacked by a fucking demon and saved by something else and she'd survived. Why? Well, Malia has a couple of theories about that. The first being that she's a fucking Winchester and no Winchester has good luck, or decent luck, or any kind of luck in general. They just survive. 

The second theory being that someone really has it out for her. 

"School's starting up soon." Chuck says at last. "Senior year, you thinking about colleges? Do you want to go to college?" 

"I dunno. My goal is just to make it through the school year at this point." 

Chuck nods, "Well... You don't have to decide yet. You have time. Hell, you could even take a year off and travel. That's fun. I did that." 

"You took a year off from schooling to travel? I thought you were old." 

"Hey," Chuck laughs. "A guy's gotta keep up with the times." 

Malia laughs, a throaty kind of from the gut thing that makes her eyes water before she reaches out to nudge the man with her foot. It breaks the tension. Chuck smiles as he pats her on the knee, smiles as he moves to gather the slobber soaked ball that Kirk had been playing with earlier. Smiles as he ushers Malia into the house later that afternoon when the sky begins to bleed orange and pink and red. 

And she smiles back despite the wounds she's peeled raw, old wounds that never really had a chance to heal. Anger and pain and so much disappointment bleeding into her bones and yet she smiles. Because Chuck? He's her family now. She'll always love Sam and Dean, and sometimes John but those feelings are few and far between, but Chuck is like the glue that's holding her together. 

So when they plop down for dinner and Malia thinks about the blade tucked against her calve she doesn't think of blood and dirt caked beneath her finger nails. Oh no. Instead she thinks of that all encompassing white light that lingers at the edge of her mind. Safety and protection and something not human. 

 

* * *

 

If there's one thing Gabriel can do well it's meddle in other people's business. Gabriel actually takes a certain amount of pride in meddling. There's something twistedly amusing about fucking with a mortal's day. Something that has to do with their free will and their egos and Gabriel's boredom. 

If there's one thing Gabriel can't handle it's boredom. 

Because boredom is like driving a car down a two lane street suck behind a guy in a grey Buick going thirty miles an hour when the speed limit is _fifty-five you fucker_. Boredom is sitting in the last pew in a church listening to the preacher with a complex as big as his fucking ass going on about things he doesn't understand but God forbid he tell his congregation that. 

No, Gabriel doesn't handle boredom well. 

It reminds him of days spent without the boisterous, fiery laughter of his elder brother and the dulcet thrum of his's eldest brother's harp. 

It reminds him of those days after the Rebellion and his father's disappearance and he can't handle it. 

So he drinks and he fucks and he meddles and sometimes that doesn't work so he has to get a little more creative. 

Today he's in some Podunk town in Mississippi, wearing the all too familiar face he's been wearing since he'd left Heaven and a new suit he got yesterday. He feels like a performing monkey. He loves it. And as he slips into the office of the school building he'll be teaching at for the day, only the day because _fuck_ anything longer, Gabriel wonders how long it'll be before he gets bored. 

The woman at the desk offers him a tight grin. 

She's sore, the bruises left on her stomach by her husband's fists haven't quite healed over and Gabriel wonders how these creatures that his father had loved so much could be so fucking cruel. He's lived with them for thousands of years and he still doesn't understand. But he offers the woman his warmest smile and lingers a bit to long when she shakes his hand so that he can push a bit of his grace into her skin and alleviate a bit of the pain. 

Because she doesn't deserve this. 

Martha Lawrence is a thirty-seven year old mother married to an alcoholic bastard who gambles too much and drinks too hard and comes home volatile and smelling of a hooker's cheap perfume. Martha always sends the kids upstairs when she sees the car headlights, always tells them to lock their doors, always makes sure the bruises covering her body don't cover Mathias' or Sarah's. 

She's a good woman, but she'll never leave him. 

He'll kill her before she can. 

And Gabriel doesn't pity people but he thinks he could pity her. 

He leaves before he can do anything stupid, before she realizes there's something different about him, before he can start hating his father for making such flawed, terrible creatures. 

It doesn't do any good to linger on the past, he's learned that over the years, and so he focuses his attention of the notes the art teacher he's subbing for left behind. Apparently one of the classes will be working with water colors. Fucking terrific. Gabriel sighs as he tosses his suit jacket over the chair. He really needs to think things through from now... Something in him snaps to alertness. 

Something ancient and primal and almost forgotten. 

 _Father_ , Gabriel thinks, ever instinct in his body screaming to find and protect and obey. _Father_. 

"Excuse me, is Mrs. Williams gone today?" 

And Gabriel stares, stares and stares, at the blonde haired brown eyed girl that lingers in the door. She's nothing overly special. Pretty, beautiful, but Gabriel has seen plenty of attractive mortals, she's really nothing special in that regard. But he can't stop staring at her. Or rather, the light that surrounds her. She's probably unaware of it, probably doesn't realize just what she's been given, but Gabriel knows. 

He _knows_. 

How many times does he remember basking in the essence that is his father? That warm pulse of grace stronger and fiercer than any angel's but so much kinder too? How long has it been since Gabriel has felt the familiar surge of delight that had always flooded his being whenever he'd been in his father's presence. 

This girl, whoever she is, is God touched. Blessed by the father that left Gabriel and the others, blessed by the father that had turned his back when things got messy, blessed and protected and Gabriel thinks that he might love this girl. Because he's spent enough time with humans and creatures to know what love is, to understand what it means. And he loves. Maybe he doesn't love her, he doesn't know her enough to love her, but he loves what she holds within her certainly. 

That all powerful grace that had created music and laughter and joy as well as hatred and pain and malice. 

"Um... Sir? Are you alright?" 

"Mrs. Williams has the flu. I'll be your substitute today." 

"Oh, ok, cool. I'm Malia by the way. Malia Campbell." 

Campbell. 

Campbell, 

Marry Campbell. 

That's who this girl is. That's why she carries herself the way she does. Gabriel nods as he leans to rest against the desk. Malia Winchester. Son of a bitch. Rumor is she left her daddy and her brothers and went of the grid, no one can find her. Not the witch John Winchester got a hold of, not the demons who've been no doubt combing the streets for her, not even the angels who feel the end nearing and are testing the vessels. Preparing the vessels for the inevitable.

But this girl, she's no vessel. 

No. She's a fucking weapon, created by the Father for reasons Gabriel doesn't understand. 

 _Protect the girl_ , something primal demands, _Protect she who is blessed_. 

"A pleasure, my name's Gabriel... You can call me Gabe." 

The blonde nods hesitantly before moving to pull one of the tiles from the pile lining the wall. He thinks that they must have come from the ceiling as there are several missing and several already depicting mediocre art that makes Gabriel want to roll his eyes.  

But he schools his features as more students begin to file into the class, bright eyes and laughter drowning out the buzz of his father's grace. Gabriel watches as the pile in the corner grows smaller and the table where the girl had been sitting fills up. 

And he begins to wander around, pretending to assess work and offering up tips to the students who actually need them because... Shit, he's no artist but obviously he's got more understanding for mixing colors than the kid with gaudy earrings does. Eventually he manages to make it to little Malia Winchester it's almost time for class to end. But he does manage to take a look at her work. 

It's... Acceptable. 

Not perfect. It could certainly be better. But it's not terrible. 

Muted colors, reds and grey-blues and black with a splash of gold here and there. 

Wilted, dried flowers in rust and blood line the border, thorns and leaves tangling to frame the gaunt blue tinted face of a woman with golden eyes and black lips. She's frowning, the gold from her eyes drip, drip, dripping down her chin to stain the shriveled up petals of the roses. 

Fucking creepy is what it is. 

Children shouldn't be painting shit like this. 

But Gabriel supposes Malia Winchester has seen some shit and she's never really gotten to be a _child_.

It's a shame really. After taking a glance of what could have been her life Gabriel sees a face free of the lingering shadows of a fucked up life, he sees laughter and a birthday party with a mother holding a bright pink cake with seven candles shoved into the batter. He sees a little girl that could have been happy, but then... If her life had been perfect, if it'd been like what Gabriel sees, Malia Winchester wouldn't be carrying the grace of the Father in her bones. 

And call him a selfish bastard but he's not willing to feel guilt over the loss. He couldn't prevent this fate, it was sealed when Michael followed the Winchester boys. There was nothing he could do to give this girl the life she so desperately wishes she'd been able to have. 

Call him whatever you want, but never let it be said that Gabriel is bound by the laws of human mortality and pain. 

He offers a tight lipped smile before turning  away from the girl that shines and gleams and pulses with an energy that not even Michael, or Lucifer for that matter, has. Because looking at her hurts, looking at her is like staring directly into the sun through a telescope. And despite the fact that Gabriel so desperately wants to look he knows better. Too much of a good thing never ends well. He'll just have to keep an eye on the girl. 

 

* * *

 

"We had a substitute today." Malia says as she puts the lid back on the pot to let the soup simmer. 

Chuck doesn't look up from the stack of papers he's looking through. Another book, Malia doesn't know what it's about but Chuck seems to think it's going to be big once he gets it finished. 

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah, his name was Gabriel. Kind of weird honestly. Kept staring at me." 

That gets his attention because he drops his pen and looks up, the little furrow between his brows one of the many signs of his confusion. 

"Gabriel?" 

"Yeah, I thought it was weird though because he never actually gave anyone a last name. Just Gabriel." 

"Hmm." 

"You ok?" Malia's honestly a bit worried, Chuck normally isn't this weird about people. 

Whenever Malia says one of her teachers or a classmate is strange he always levels her with a look and tells her to remember that not everyone has the same advantages someone else might have. Not everyone is the same. That it's cruel to judge someone based on clothing choices or their attitudes. Malia always tries to keep the judgement to a minimum but the sub today was.... Something else. 

Obviously Chuck thinks the same. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Is the soup done?" 

Malia raises an eyebrow, "Give it a few more minutes." 

"What would I do without you?" Chuck laughs. 

"Probably live off of peanut butter and brandy." Malia offers before moving to grab bowls out of the cupboard. 

"More than likely." 

The blonde rolls her eyes as she moves to ladle soup into the bowls. It's nothing fancy. Vegetable soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, two of the five things Malia feels confident about making without burning the house down. She'd never really cooked when she'd lived with John and her brothers but then she'd started living with Chuck and she'd actually had a kitchen that she could use. 

So she cooks and bakes and sometimes it tastes like death but she's _learning_. 

Besides, Chuck always seems to enjoy eating her food... Even if he doesn't actually enjoy eating human food. Malia thinks it has something to do with him feeling good about how happy it makes Malia. 

"Well, it's not exactly a lie is it?" Chuck laughs before stuffing a spoonful of soup into his mouth. 

Malia shakes her head, "You're such a nerd, Chuck." 

"This," the man laughs, "is not a lie." 

 

* * *

 

Gabriel watches the house, watches the girl and the dark haired human she lives with. 

 _Potential Prophet_ , he thinks, _this Chuck Shurley_. 

But the potential to be something does not make him something. Right now he is mortal, boring, one blip among trillions. And the disappointment that fills Gabriel is mind numbingly familiar. And he should really just leave. It would be better if he left now. But he can't seem to work up the nerve to turn his back on that burning light that lingers around Malia Winchester's small frame. 

So he lingers, standing in the street and watching the little house until the large white dog that clearly shouldn't be classified as a dog begins barking, snarling really, from the other side of the window that gives Gabriel the perfect view of the girl. 

"Fuck." He mutters, eyes narrowing as the dark haired man gently shoves the dog aside and closes the blinds. 


End file.
